April 27, 1942
To my very own Sweetheart of the Forces,
We saw the first robin today — that’s ten days earlier than last year. The road is pure mud so we’ve been sticking close to home until it dries up. I cut a bouquet of pussy willows and your mother has them on the kitchen table.
I’m hoping to get an early start on the seeding since Jack isn’t around to help. I wanted to keep him here, but I couldn’t say no when all of his friends have gone. He’s hankering to fly a Spit, but I told him not to count his chickens. His last letter was from Trenton, Ontario. He’s not much for writing, but he dashes off the odd postcard.
George Stewart and I have worked out a plan to help each other this year. We’ll use both seeders on his place, then come over to ours. He said Charlie has been posted to a new station in the north of England. Charlie isn’t allowed to say where, but before he left they worked out a rough code. I can’t tell you what it is, or the censors will be cutting holes in this letter, too.
There are planes buzzing around all the time now that the new relief airfield went in next to the Stewart place. The base built a hangar and radio shack there, even a barracks building. I was worried about the cattle but they’ve gotten used to the racket now. Two airmen came over this morning looking for something to do, so I gave them a couple of .22s and told them to shoot gophers. I hope they don’t shoot each other.
Did the British newspapers report anything about our plebiscite on conscription? Everyone in English Canada was in favour but the Quebeckers voted no almost to a man. MacTavish tried to defend them in an editorial, but he made himself pretty unpopular down at the Legion hall, not that he cares.
I wish you could describe your work but we know it’s top secret. We’re glad you’ve been posted to a safe place away from London. That’s where the balloon will go up if things get worse.
Your loving Dad
Somewhere in England
May 1, 1942
Dear Mother and Dad,
Today I met a real lord! His name is Lord Alfred March. One of the public relations officers was showing him around, and he introduced me by saying: “Leading Aircraftwoman Rose Jolliffe is a real asset to the Commonwealth.” For the life of me, I didn’t know whether I should salute, shake hands, or curtsy! I gave a nervous nod and said how do you do.
He didn’t look very lordly. Tall and thin, with a bowler hat and a fusty black suit, satin waistcoat, and bow tie. Maybe he was trying to imitate Churchill. He had lots of room for a bow tie because his neck was so long and skinny.
After they left the room, one of the other girls told me that Lord March has contributed his entire fortune to the war effort and turned his estate in Devonshire into a home for war orphans. I felt awful then, judging him by his appearance!
I go for long walks whenever I’m not on duty. The countryside around here is so pretty. I amuse myself by trying to identify the unfamiliar flowers. The barrage balloons look like big silver jackfish floating in the sky. I sat on a stile last night to watch the sunset, and the bottoms of the balloons turned the loveliest shade of pink.
All my love, Rose
10
My pupils felt permanently dilated, like a cat’s eyes in the night. I now spent most of my daylight hours in the windowless darkroom, and emerged only after sunset into full blackout.
I remembered the old saying about a soldier’s life: 10 percent hell, the rest sit around and wait. When the weather was good and the recce pilots were flying, the lab people were working under intense pressure. Either we were making prints, extra prints, and then more prints because another section wanted copies, or the pilots were weathered out and we were killing time by cleaning equipment and checking chemicals.
Today I was in the print library, filing a batch of photographs with purple fingers. All the girls had them, because the developing fluid stained our skin a gentian colour. Since our work was secret, if anyone asked us about our hands, we were supposed to say we had been dyeing the curtains in our quarters.
My thoughts were as dismal as the black, roiling clouds covering the sky. The Allied situation was grim. Our troops in North Africa were being driven back, fighting fiercely for each yard of sand. The Germans had penetrated deep into Russia. The Japanese had conquered the entire British Empire in the east, and the Americans were battling for supremacy in the Pacific.
I had quietly celebrated my twenty-first birthday the previous day, in sharp contrast to the joyful occasions at home with cake and presents. I had allowed myself the luxury of shedding a few tears into my pillow before falling asleep.
If I had stayed in Touchwood, I would now be old enough to join the women’s air force. The Canadian women were doing a stellar job, but none of them had been allowed to leave the country yet because of fears for their safety.
Nobody mentioned it — the subject was taboo — but I couldn’t help secretly wondering what would happen if the unthinkable happened and Germany won this war. Would the conquerors allow the Canadians to return home? Or would my uniform mean spending years in a prison camp, or even worse? It was too terrifying to contemplate.
I heaved another deep sigh and picked up the next stack of photographs. They weren’t top priority — a pilot had used the last of his film on his way home across northern France. The photos had been examined and were going into a cardboard filing box, where they would stay until after the war.
The European fields were most unlike the neat squares back home. They were a hodgepodge of shades and textures: a crazy quilt, with rivers, hedges, and roads featherstitching them together like dark and light embroidery floss.
These photos were obliques, taken from a side angle as the plane banked at low altitude. I wondered how our own farm would look from the air. I could see rivers and roads, trees and roofs. The bare fields showed the parallel marks of cultivation where the blades had cut into the earth.
As I placed each photograph in the box, I studied it closely. I had a niggling feeling that something was out of place — what was it? Spreading the photos out on a wooden table, I took up a magnifying glass.
An hour later, I was standing in Mrs. Hamilton’s tiny office. “Excuse me, Section Officer, but I couldn’t help noticing something odd when I was filing these photographs.”
She listened to my explanation, then pushed back her chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, quite frankly, but any discrepancies should be noted.”
We marched down the long hallway to Shoreham’s office. Mrs. Hamilton gave a gentle knock, and we were told to enter. Shoreham was seated at his desk in front of the oversized French windows. The dark clouds had parted, and a shaft of pale afternoon sunlight fell over his shoulder.
Two other people were present. One of them was the head of the camouflage section, a tall, dark-haired officer in his mid-thirties named Gideon Fowler. I knew him by sight, and only because he was so handsome it was impossible not to notice him. He reminded me of the actor Robert Taylor, right down to the pencil-thin moustache, the cleft in his chin, and the sleekness of his glossy black hair. Several girls in the darkroom pretended to swoon
